The Reunion/Graduation Day

The warning signs at the front gates of Fort Benning, Georgia, saying that all vehicles may be subjected to search make appearing nonchalant an act as Sam pulls over into the parking lot of the front welcome station to sign in and receive a visitor's pass. The last thing he wants is for some MP to insist on looking through the trunk. He kind of wishes he had flown and rented a car, but he had thought maybe Dean would want to see his baby.

Dean really loves this car. Please, please don't let me fuck that up by having it impounded. Please, don't make me bring that look to my big brother's eyes again.

Sam has missed his brother with an ache worse than the previous year when he thought Dean was dead, again. Purgatory – an afterlife for monsters, really, who even knew that a human could go there, nevermind go there and survive. Of course, if one could, it would be my big brother. Anyway, Sam finds praying that his brother was in heaven was closure of a sort. Worrying about him as soldier – out putting his head in the jaw of a government the two generally had tried to avoid their entire life – that was a different thing. And Afghanistan? He didn't even want to think about it.

Having the two of them part on such strained tones, with Dean thinking Sam had stopped caring because he hadn't looked for him, hurt. The disappointed look and betrayal in Dean's eyes had crushed him. Sam wonders if Dean knew how he had flayed Sam's soul with that look.

. . . . . . .

March here, stand there, salute this. Graduation Day is about the most boring of all the days Dean has spent in training. Some of it is the anticipation of getting the show over with so he can see his brother; and while his body is going through the motions, Dean is scanning the crowds looking for a Sasquatch. He's also musing over how fast things have gone since he said yes to Special Forces, but he figures he should look younger. This past week while Dean completed OSUT training at Fort Benning and was pinned with his cross-rifles last night after a grueling march, Warrant Officer Smith had tweaked a few things in his background. He was amazed to find that the first thing was he de-aged. Smith gave him new paperwork making Dean Mossberg 29 years old – with a secret security clearance. He hopes Sammy doesn't figure that one out.

Plus, even here at Benning – and pretty much under lockdown – Dean has put down a few ghosts. Somebody has to take care of the Supernatural monsters in the world.

Smith has been straight forward – Dean Winchester, now Dean Mossberg - belongs to the US Army, and he better be as good as his word. No backing down, no being a wuss about training, including, yup, airborne and air assault. Instead of being sent to Afghanistan, Dean will be spending most of the next year in training – one step at a time – until he is qualified to be in Delta Force, the super-secretive outfit that is officially known as 1st Special Forces Operational Detachment-Delta, and affectionately known as The Unit by its members. Delta Force specializes in counter-terrorism, and is part of the Joint Special Forces Operating Command.

By obvious means and subterfuge, the Drill Sergeants have kept Dean away from phones and computers all week. He's worried about Sam walking into a trap, except he has cut a deal that leaves Sammy out of it and by that agreement, there's only so much he is allowed to tell Sam.

. . . . . . .

After his unit is marched back off the field, Dean starts looking for his brother in earnest, but he doesn't get far before Sam clasps his shoulder and pulls him for a hug. A real one.

"Hey, G.I. Joe." Sam teases, and Dean swallows back retorts. Swallows back tears, too. But it doesn't take long until they're interrupted by droves of younger soldiers who want their moms, dads, and even sisters, to meet the Old Man, the guy who helped them through. Sam watches proudly and shakes plenty of hands. After 15 minutes of it, he gets a hand on Dean's elbow and steers him toward the parking lot, only to find that baby has drawn a crowd of her own.

Dean practically kisses Baby. Crooning over her and petting her curves, happily talking about his car to the other enthusiasts. It takes a few minutes more to disburse that group until there's only one left. Dean notices and salutes.

"I decided to ride along while you talk to his brother." Smith doesn't ask, and Sam is puzzled by the interaction, as he gets into the driver's seat. "I've got us suites over at the Holiday Inn on Victory Drive. Don't worry about your duffel and personal stuff, Winchester, my guys have already moved you. I'll show you how to get there."

Sam stiffens. Winchester. This guy knows – and it sounds like more than just him. He casts an accusing gaze at Dean, who says "Yeah, some stuff came up this week, Sam. Let's get to the hotel and … we'll talk."

. . . . . . . .

Sam finds himself in a nice two double bed suite with his brother – with a connecting door to Warrant Officer Smith's King bed suite. Two other big, tough-looking guys are standing near the door across the hall from their room. Sam is starting to feel like things are worse than he imagined in the car. Glancing at his brother as they check their duffels to find all weapons missing, Sam reads resignation in his eyes as he turns toward the living area of the suite.

Smith is already there sitting in the computer office chair which he has moved near the refrigerator. He has kicked back, taken off his jacket and loosened his tie. He invites Dean to do the same as he reaches into the 'frig and draws out three beers. "Thought we could do this the easy way. Give your brother a chance to get used to our arrangement. … Relax, Sam."

Dean snorts. "Didn't think I could handle it? Or did you think Sam here was going to try to rescue me … Sir?" The sir is almost an afterthought, but it is not forgotten.

Smith gives Dean a crooked smile. "Maybe just guarding my investment." He swallows some beer. "Seriously, you can relax - both of you – no rank, Dean. We'll hang out here awhile. Talk. Me and the guys will give you time to talk on your own. We can get women up here for you, if you'd like. Tell you though, I'd expect better of your brother – I mean he's living with that vet. You, though, I'd understand. Infantry training can be a long 14 weeks. I'm not here to cramp your down time. I'm here so when Sam goes back home. He does it without trying anything stupid."

"I'd rather talk to my brother alone," Sam is looming, through the years he has found a way to make that lanky height intimidating. Well, to some people. Smith is not one of them. He quirks his lips and shoots Sam an amused glance.

"Sit down, kid, before you hurt yourself." And Sam, responding to that tone that used to brook no opposition when he heard it in his father's voice, sits on the couch, like a high school kid on a first date.

Dean stretches, takes off his jacket and tie, and slouches into the couch. Plops his feet up on the coffee table and noisily gulps half his beer. "That was as good as I hoped," he says, waving the beer bottle. Then he closes his eyes briefly and sighs. "Here's your chance to 'I told you so' at me, Sammy. I fucked up. Didn't keep my head down enough and ended up tweaking someone's radar."

"But Sam, I don't want you to worry. They have promised to leave you out of this. It's just my services they want right now."